The Week in Style: 09.02.11

They stopped shaving. Men of all jobs and repute grew beards—indifferent of the violent sun that burns on in the death of Irene, of the startlingly white hair that springs from their face and not scalp, of conventional wisdom on these things. Christoph Waltz was one of these men.

Mr. Sudeikis had a more modern way about him, trimming, we suspect, with a level two or three blade, so as to keep from looking like a schlub, the way most of us assume— wrongly or rightly or with amoral intention—guys of good wit must be. We'd have given him a different pocket square, though. One that matched less.

Alexander...as always he looked big—especially big. One had only to look at the cup in relation to his hands or the people on the street, the city itself even—it too, looked smaller in his shadow. And the only thing that kept him in check was his shirt, slouched, tattered, a size bigger too even for him. It seemed impossible to find something that way, too large. But in the end it was chicer as so.

And another man, of shorter stature but larger frame, whose muscles could meet Skarsgård's with force and fury and perhaps 50 lbs or so more weight, found jeans and a shirt that were snug. The latter was olive and flattered his skin.

It was hot, not blazing but not cool, hot enough to energize pores, but still two rappers, unmitigated by the heat, bundled in wooly layers and black shades. Drake, having popularized the cardigans of Comme des Garcons, broke free of his sweatered history in a cable knit fit for December; While Ne-Yo chose a V-neck of gold-speckled thread that might, in another season have looked sharp, but today, in September, felt rushed—undeniably, indefensibly rushed.

It seemed to one man that something, he did not know what, was beginning. A new stage perhaps. One where his neon brown skin might work with powder blue. One where he and a leggy women might share things—money and joy but probably just money—in Venice, forever.

He came back from the dead, one had only to look beyond the years that aged his skin to see he was there. Fully formed. He was tightlipped like he held secrets or anger or disgust for the beautiful people around him. For the liquor signs that scorched his eyes. For every decade but the 90s. And, lastly or at least finally, for Jon Hamm's goddamn perfect hair.

Photo: Getty Images

Photo: Getty Images

**Christoph Waltz in Venice, Italy. **

They stopped shaving. Men of all jobs and repute grew beards—indifferent of the violent sun that burns on in the death of Irene, of the startlingly white hair that springs from their face and not scalp, of conventional wisdom on these things. Christoph Waltz was one of these men.

Photo: Splash News

**Jude Law in London, England. **

And Jude Law, who we haven't paid much notice for months, years even, briskly waltzed with an overgrown lawn on his mug. He was slightly smug now in his 38th year. He, also, did not shave.

Photo: Splash News

**Jason Sudeikis in NYC. **

Mr. Sudeikis had a more modern way about him, trimming, we suspect, with a level two or three blade, so as to keep from looking like a schlub, the way most of us assume— wrongly or rightly or with amoral intention—guys of good wit must be. We'd have given him a different pocket square, though. One that matched less.

Photo: 7online.com

**Andrew Garfield and Emma Stone in Malibu, CA. **

Young men, too, even in the presence of a woman we love, hopelessly, desperately, but not with the pervishness of another, sprouted patches on their face. We'd prefer this one had not done so.

Photo: Splash News

**Alexander Skarsgard in NYC. **

Alexander...as always he looked big—especially big. One had only to look at the cup in relation to his hands or the people on the street, the city itself even—it too, looked smaller in his shadow. And the only thing that kept him in check was his shirt, slouched, tattered, a size bigger too even for him. It seemed impossible to find something that way, too large. But in the end it was chicer as so.

Photo: Splash News

**Joe Manganiello in Beverly Hills, CA. **

And another man, of shorter stature but larger frame, whose muscles could meet Skarsgård's with force and fury and perhaps 50 lbs or so more weight, found jeans and a shirt that were snug. The latter was olive and flattered his skin.

Photo: Getty Images

**Drake and Ne-Yo in Los Angeles. **

It was hot, not blazing but not cool, hot enough to energize pores, but still two rappers, unmitigated by the heat, bundled in wooly layers and black shades. Drake, having popularized the cardigans of Comme des Garcons, broke free of his sweatered history in a cable knit fit for December; While Ne-Yo chose a V-neck of gold-speckled thread that might, in another season have looked sharp, but today, in September, felt rushed—undeniably, indefensibly rushed.

Photo: Getty Images

**Bianca Brandolini d'Adda and Valentino in Venice, Italy. **

It seemed to one man that something, he did not know what, was beginning. A new stage perhaps. One where his neon brown skin might work with powder blue. One where he and a leggy women might share things—money and joy but probably just money—in Venice, forever.

Photo: Getty Images

**George Clooney in Venice, Italy. **

Clooney, ever the gentleman, a paragon of actors in his league, wore a classic tux with cuffs linked simply, the way they should always be.

Photo: Splash News

**David Arquette in NYC. **

"The David" they called him with love and affection for his quirky dress and manner. This week he wore khaki and plaid, like a well-dressed but subdued everyman. Like some man besides himself.

Photo: Getty Images

Marilyn Manson and Jon Hamm in Los Angeles.

He came back from the dead, one had only to look beyond the years that aged his skin to see he was there. Fully formed. He was tightlipped like he held secrets or anger or disgust for the beautiful people around him. For the liquor signs that scorched his eyes. For every decade but the 90s. And, lastly or at least finally, for Jon Hamm's goddamn perfect hair.